the taut chords of that glossy instrument
goofy as he,
a lopsided mask
and yet he carries the ridicule
and gives the audience his own Cheshire-Cat smile
brushing away the smooth cascade,
his curtain of raven black hair
crooning and charming
with the charisma of a twenty-first century jester
I peer through the ravine
between a couch and an armchair
splayed on the hard slate of concrete
like a weirdo
to make eye contact,
waiting to embrace the velvet swirl of his voice.
The flash of his creamy teeth,
I stir at each grin,
the gentle pat on the shoulder,
and a festering horror,
gripped by the comfort of the mundane
as he serenades,
the strangest notion.
as if for the first time, yet spilling forth
a thousand swan songs.
He is the oldest
yet youngest singer here.
If this was his last performance,
how much would I remember?